


Brave the Shave

by keeptheotherone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 17:20:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14898767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeptheotherone/pseuds/keeptheotherone
Summary: Anthea gets a drastic haircut. Mycroft reacts.





	Brave the Shave

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt given to writingwife-83 on Tumblr that she graciously offered to anyone interested.

Mycroft entered his office at the typical time on a typical Tuesday morning, but the blonde woman sitting at Anthea’s desk was anything but typical. He gripped his umbrella a little tighter, just in case.

“Who are you?”

She raised her head, revealing blue eyes and a familiar face. His jaw dropped.

“An—Anthea?” 

“Yes, sir?”

The voice was right, and the face, but the hair—the hair was very, very wrong. Straight, short, and worst of all—blonde.

“What—” His voice came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat. “What have you done to your hair?” Somewhere in the distance, Sherlock’s voice accused him of sounding like a grammar school drama queen, but Mycroft had bigger concerns at the moment, namely the sanity and good judgement of his assistant, both of which were requirements for her position.

“I braved the shave!” she said cheerfully.

He hadn’t thought it could get any worse, but then she reached up and gently tugged on her hair, revealing the edge of smooth, white skin where face turned to scalp.  


Mycroft dropped his umbrella.

“I thought a shaven woman would be a little much for the establishment to bear, so I bought a couple of wigs. What do you think?” She fingered the blonde strands floating just above her shoulder.

Mycroft blinked once, twice, trying to process the information given to him by eyes and ears. “You—you shaved your hair? All of it?” 

Her hair, that glorious chocolate-brown mane that curled at the ends and shone like spun silk, had been cut to land to the floor and be swept into the rubbish?

“Mycroft? Are you okay?” Anthea half-rose from her chair, but he waved her back.

“What—” He cleared his throat again and bent to pick up his umbrella for support. “What happened to your hair?”

Her brows—those were still brown, he noted with relief—drew together. “I just told you. I shaved it. For charity,” she added, as if that mattered.

He shook his head. “No, I mean—what happened to your hair?”

“Oh! I donated it.”

“You donated it.”

“Sir, did you miss breakfast?” Anthea came out from behind her desk, heading for the credenza on one side of the room. “You really don’t look well. Tea?”

“Yes!” Mycroft said, latching on to this bastion of normality with relief. “Yes, tea. Please.”

Apparently recognizing he had too many questions to vocalize, Anthea began talking as she prepared a tray. 

“It’s for Macmillan Cancer Support,” she explained. “A fund-raising campaign. You ‘brave the shave’ and ask people to support you by donating to the charity. And if you have more than seven inches, which of course I did—”

Two or three times over, Mycroft thought miserably.

“Then you can donate your hair to another charity called the Little Princess Trust, which makes wigs for children with hair loss from cancer and other diseases.”

She added half a pack of chocolate biscuits to the tray—he really must look dreadful—and carried it into his office. He followed.

“How much do I have to donate for you to never, ever do this again?”

She laughed, setting the tray on one corner of his desk. “What?”

“How much,” he repeated slowly, “do I need to donate to this charity to ensure you never feel the need to shave your head again?”

“I—well—my goal is five hundred pounds….”

Mycroft picked up his cup and rounded his desk. “So five thousand should cover us for the next ten years, then?”

His offer had surprised her, but she was regaining her composure. 

“That’s very generous of you, sir, but….”

He narrowed his eyes. 

“I can’t promise I won’t shave my head for some other reason. It is my hair, after all.” 

“And you’re my assistant.” He mimicked her slight emphasis on the pronoun.

They stared at each other. He saw her clench her jaw and wondered how much she would protest his attitude; the threat had no teeth, and she knew it. 

“Make it seventy-five hundred and I’ll pretend you never said that,” she said at last. 

_That’s my girl_.


End file.
